


The Magnificent Mayor

by mia6363



Series: Mayor Peter Hale [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Frottage, Implied Violence, M/M, Peter Hale is the Mayor, Semi-Graphic descriptions of the aftermath of violence, There are a lot of implications here folks, grey morality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 20:09:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12733455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia6363/pseuds/mia6363
Summary: “As I see it,” Peter squeezed the back of his neck with a still-trembling hand, “we can do two things. We can walk away and never speak of tonight again,” Peter ignored the harsh uptick in Noah’s heartbeat, “or I can take you out to dinner next week.”





	The Magnificent Mayor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DiscontentedWinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscontentedWinter/gifts).



Beacon Hills was hushed in the early April witching hours. Thick fog clung to the asphalt as the spacious greenery faded into downtown. Shadows lurked in alleyways though the three joggers felt no fear as they jogged town. 

Peter Hale was dressed in sensible athletic wear with neon stripes on his sleeves. He ran with Kira and Erica, their footsteps and breathing synchronized. Chilled air nipped at Peter’s heels and brought a light flush to his cheekbones. Erica’s eyes flashed gold, making sure the shadows _remained_ in their place. Kira kept close to Peter, her eyes ahead. 

“Do you smell smoke?” 

Her brows furrowed and Peter sniffed the air. The subtle smell of faraway ash made his skin tighten and saliva dry up on his tongue. He growled and his eyes flashed red. 

“Pick up the pace.” 

Their light jog became a ruthless sprint and Peter wanted to howl when Kira and Erica kept up without faltering. Their path led them to the last struggling remains of skid row, any buildings left were scheduled to be torn down or were being occupied by squatters. Drug activity was still high. 

Five blocks down, a desolate building was in flames. The heat blew their hair back and Peter swallowed, his skin itching with memories of third degree burns and the smell of bubbling flesh. There were three heartbeats inside, probably homeless squatters, and Peter turned to Erica. 

“Wait outside for me. Kira,” Peter felt a small bubble of pride grow in his chest when she didn’t flinch away from his crimson stare, “call the fire department and police… Boyd as well.” 

Kira nodded and pulled out her phone. 

Fire was exactly like Peter remembered. Unforgiving, relentless, and blistering. Debris tripped him up and the first two heartbeats were easy, two near-catatonic men who hardly registered the heat. His lungs burned with smoke when he retrieved the third and final squatter, a young woman with matted hair and wide eyes. He saved her for last, she was the most coherent and her hands shook when he led her out of the fire. Even through the smoke, Peter could see the girl-next-door qualities that were _just_ what he was looking for.

The backs of his hands ached and when he stumbled into the grey, cold morning air he felt as though he’d slipped into paradise. The air was so clean with hellfire at his back. 

“Oh God,” she coughed and tears streaked down her soot-stained cheeks. “I… I would have, I could have—” 

Peter squeezed her shoulders despite how it made his hands sting. She sucked in a breath and her eyes cleared when she finally looked up at him. Her mouth went slack and Peter was glad that even among the most destitute and on the fringe… he was still _recognized_. Her throat bobbed and she wheezed around a flustered cough. 

Paramedics and firefighters rushed to them. When they reached for him first, Peter held up his hand. 

“Her first,” Peter’s insisted and coughed roughly into his hand. The woman still stared at him, transfixed, and Peter smiled. “When you’re all fixed up, why not come to my office? We offer several rehabilitation programs. State-of-the-art facilities.” She sucked in an uneven breath and Peter held out his hand. “Promise you’ll stop by and say hello?”

She shook his hand and Peter caught the hints of a hopeful smile tickling the corner of her lips. The paramedics led her away and helped the other two that Peter had grabbed. 

He turned to glance back at the remains of skid row. It burned so beautifully, honeyed-tangerine cinders swirling into the air. Peter heard Boyd’s camera snap. He caught a glance at Erica and Kira on the sidelines, talking to the members of the press who were able to get up at the moment’s notice. Peter cleared his throat and straightened, ready to join them, when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. 

“Journalists can wait, Mayor Hale.” 

Sheriff Noah Stilinski frowned at him, his worry-lines deeply etched at the corner of his eyes and mouth. Peter offered his most charming smile and delighted when the Sheriff’s heartbeat stammered in his chest. 

“It will just take a moment, Sheriff. I should say something—”

“ _No_.” 

Peter’s smile dropped out of shock and the Sheriff took advantage of Peter’s temporary lapse of judgement. He steered him firmly to the ambulance where anxious medics were waiting to take a look at him. A blanket was draped over his shoulders as doctors listened to his lungs and an oxygen mask was gently strapped over his nose and mouth. 

Firefighters sprayed water on the embers, but it was too late. The blaze had been too great, too swift. There was no hope of salvaging an already empty husk of a building. Peter watched, the oxygen spreading through his already-healed lungs like a cold breeze in a desert. The water made the lingering flames crackle and hiss into pitiful black smoke that curled into tendrils. 

_What a beautiful morning_ , Peter thought with a crooked grin. 

The blanket slipped off Peter’s shoulder. Before he could catch it, the Sheriff’s weathered hand was there. Their surrounding chaos melted away to a dull buzz as Peter focused on how the Sheriff’s hand trembled. If he hadn’t been touching Peter he wouldn’t have noticed. His fingers gripped Peter’s shoulder under the pretense of holding the blanket in place. 

“Lucky you were there.” The Sheriff’s eyes were like cracked ice. “And lucky… that this was the last building in the way of the new affordable housing projects.” 

Peter kept his expression static, he kept still and made sure to keep breathing. Sheriff Stilinski let his hand drop off Peter’s shoulder. His throat was dry and his palms began to sweat. 

He swallowed as the Sheriff turned to look at the fire. Peter felt electric arousal skitter down his spine, his breath fogging up his oxygen mask. Kira slipped under the barricade and Boyd kept taking pictures. A harsh wind blew and lingering cinders made the Sheriff turn and their eyes met. 

Peter loved and _loathed_ that he couldn’t read the man’s expression. 

::::

Peter’s priorities changed when he regained consciousness in Beacon Hills hospital with third-degree burns and screams still clawing at his vocal chords. All thoughts of typical vanity and shallow delights were gone when he got a look at his arms, their decayed flesh. The howls of his family was still fresh in his ears, along with the cruel laughter from the woman with blonde hair and gasoline—

“Mr. Hale?” He was overwhelmed with the feeling of sheets against his skin, of wearing clothes that weren’t his, of the new and _intoxicating_ Alpha power that flowed through his veins, and his focus needed to keep his wounds from mending because— “Mr. Hale, can you hear me?” 

Sheriff Stilinski had been a hallowed shadow back then. The dark circles under his eyes and the whisper of whiskey on his breath were miserable reminders of his loss. He stood with a slight slouch and his eyes were distant. Peter straightened as much as his body would allow, which was barely a centimeter of movement. The bandages clung painfully to his ruined skin and he grunted with the effort to sit up.

“Who…” Peter hated that he still _tasted_ black ash, that he felt it cling to his vocal chords. His head throbbed when he tried to _remember_ what he’d managed to accomplish during the screaming, the crumbling support beams, and the desperate cries of _Peter, help me—_ but a black maw stared back at him. _Trauma_ , Peter’s mind provided, _it might be a while before you remember anything_. “Were there any survivors?” 

The Sheriff’s lips pulled down and Peter had a white-knuckled grip on his sheets. 

“Derek and Cora survived.” The Sheriff’s voice cracked and Peter felt a hot flash of rage. How _dare_ he feel _anything_ for Peter other than vague discomfort and indifference? He lost a wife, he didn’t lose _an entire family_. Peter knew that the anger was reactionary, that the Sheriff’s glassy eyes were well-intentioned… but in the moment he didn’t care. “If there’s anything I can do…”

“I want my niece and nephew. Here. Now.” 

Relief made the Sheriff’s shoulders go slack. 

“Of course.” 

Peter breathed easier when the Sheriff left. He shifted up on the bed, pulling the sheets with him. His jaw ached with the effort it took to _repress_ his healing. Derek and Cora were by his side within minutes and Peter pulled them onto the bed, not caring how much it hurt. They buried their faces into his neck, their breaths raw and shuddering deep in their chests. They squeezed him tight and trembled like branches in a relentless winter storm. 

Derek had his arm around his sister, but it did little to stop her from shaking. Her breath was hot against Peter’s damaged skin. 

“Are we… are we gonna have to move now?” 

Her question didn’t come from a pragmatic mindset because their house was gone. It came from the fact that they’d been _burned_ by hunters, that a woman came into their house and wanted to remove the Hale legacy from Beacon Hills. That this woman felt she was _given_ that right, to murder a peaceful Pack. The police would just think it’s arson. The remaining Hales knew better. 

“No.” Peter’s arms tightened around them. “We’re not going anywhere.” 

It was a promise made in blood and death, and one that Peter did everything in his power to keep. 

He kept his promise to Derek and Cora. It took time, effort, brutality, and literal and figurative blood on his hands. Beacon Hills _needed_ to have a man like Peter Hale as its mayor. The last few mayors did things… legally. It was a nice thought, but it was awfully slow. Peter had no time for rules, only what was best to keep what little remained of his Pack safe. 

Part of his role also included highly private budgetary meetings with his part-time financial advisor. 

“Every year I think: _It’s gonna be different, Bobby, this year we’ll sit down for an hour, tops, and be done with it_ , but no. No it somehow gets _longer_ every fucking time. I need coffee, Peter. I’m fucking dying.” 

Bobby Finstock pulled his wild hair in a standard display of dramatics. His manic eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep and his foot bounced on the ground. People tended to glance over Finstock as _just another eccentric or that weirdo who’s obsessed with lacrosse_. His abrasive personality certainly didn’t help his accessibility… but Peter noticed everybody and everything. 

Hidden underneath the cursing and whining discontent was a brilliant financial mind. 

“Quit complaining,” Peter smirked despite his teeth being slick with coffee, tea, and food particles. “You love our sleepovers.” 

Finstock rolled his eyes but it did nothing to erase his smile. Peter didn’t need much time to determine that Finstock was a worthy addition to his team. He was an Economics teacher in Beacon Hills High School but, if they were both honest with each other, he could have had an illustrious career in finance and banking. He just… simply chose not to. And Peter wasn’t about to let such ripe fruit remain untasted. 

Graphs, charts, and previous financial reports were spread across Peter’s desk and floor. Finstock chewed on his pencil. Peter kicked off his shoes to get comfortable and Finstock followed suit. Peter’s socks were an elegant argyle. Finstock’s were neon-blue. 

“What if,” Peter’s eyes scanned his office’s budget report, “I took another salary cut? Let’s say… twenty percent.” 

Finstock jerked his head up, pencil falling from his mouth. 

“That would be your third cut.” Peter shrugged. Finstock swallowed and he was oddly quiet. “That’s not… an insignificant number, Peter.” 

“I don’t make _insignificant_ suggestions.” 

Finstock snorted and stretched his back before he got up from the floor. His knees popped and he came around the desk to look at the numbers. They spoke in low, hushed tones, finding a second wind when new, accessible money from Peter’s salary was able to be used for something better. 

A boisterous laugh made them pause. It came from outside, in the general offices. It was a laugh they were both familiar with, though Peter had a feeling it sounded a bit different to Finstock. 

Kira Yukimura knocked twice before she came in with coffee. 

“Sorry I’m a little late, guys,” her hair was starting to come undone from its loose ponytail. She blew stray locks out of her face as she jerked her head to the side. “I ran into someone while on the coffee-run.” She stepped to the side to reveal Sheriff Stilinski holding bags of pastries and food. “Any progress?” 

“Yeah.” Finstock gingerly took his coffee, pressing the side of the cup to his prickly face. “Oh my God.” Finstock closed his eyes and pressed the cup harder against his cheek. “Oh my _God_. I needed this, thank you.” 

Kira’s grin softened into a tired smile. 

“Just doing my job. Let’s check the numbers.” 

Though it took a few years, Peter had finally found a steady rhythm to being the mayor. He let the harmony wash over him, a slow smile curling across his lips. When he was in his office, surrounded by his closest confidants… he felt as though he were in a candlelit room where the walls were red silk and a crooning blues singer could be heard from a room over. Peter turned away from the fleeting fantasy in order to grab a croissant. 

“Need any coffee, Sheriff? Maybe a pastry?” 

Sheriff Stilinski hummed. 

“I’ll take some coffee.” 

Peter handed him his own cup, using his body to block the papers on his desk from the Sheriff’s view. 

“Here. Have mine.” He turned with a wink. “I’ve got enough energy as it is.” He held out his arm. “I’ll take you to your car.” 

The Sheriff didn’t take Peter’s offered arm, but he did take the hint that Peter had _work to do_. Peter walked down the corridors in his blue argyle socks with the Sheriff, his posture and pace relaxed. 

At first glance, the Sheriff was a salt-of-the-earth _good_ man. His uniform was neatly pressed, his gait was steady without being cocky, and his focused gaze never soured into toxic suspicion. The tragedy of his wife’s death only elevated him. He’d lost his wife, but he hadn’t _lost Beacon Hills_. He took his coffee black and had great taste in whiskey. His lips would curl around the word _Mayor_ like the word itself left a tingling sensation on his tongue. 

Sheriff Stilinski might have simple tastes, but he wasn’t a simple man. Whenever they were in the same room Peter knew he was being watched. The focus was there, a slow study that made the small hairs on the back of Peter’s neck quiver. It was the same in the empty corridors in city hall. The Sheriff’s boots were loud against the tile while Peter’s steps were always light and silent.

Peter often wondered if he made the Sheriff uncomfortable. The Sheriff was kind, but he didn’t have a picture perfect smile or practiced witty rapport. He studied people for motives, not like they were a different species. Perhaps it was impossible for the Sheriff to forget how Peter _looked_ when his skin had been bubbled and blackened from the fire. 

“When’s the last time you slept, Peter?”

It was… not the question Peter had been expecting. Peter lingered by the double-doors, dull light from the parking lot lamps poured through the glass. His toes were cold and he wiggled them in his socks. 

“Kira makes sure I take cat-naps if I start getting too giggly.” Peter grinned and the Sheriff tried to hide his returning smile in his coffee. “How’s Stiles?” 

Noah didn’t bother hiding his smile. 

“Good. The librarians love him or hate him, depending on who you ask. He’ll probably have read all the books in that branch before he’s in junior high.” The Sheriff’s lips curled, crooked and imperfect. “He’s so sharp already.” 

They lingered in the approaching daylight. The approaching sun made a thin line along the horizon glow, threatening to spill over and send golden light to end the hypnotic daze that came with the early hours. The Sheriff didn’t leave and Peter didn’t move to push the door open in a polite but clear dismissal. 

Peter breathed deep, the kind of breath a person takes after waking up after a long sleep. The Sheriff shifted his weight and leaned in closer. His interest was sweet, earthy, and _curious_. His eyes betrayed nothing, his body betrayed _nothing_. Peter let the silence continue until the Sheriff shifted back onto his heels. 

“Try and get some sleep, Peter. _Real_ sleep.” 

Peter saluted and winked. 

“Yes, Sheriff.” 

Glittering sunlight burst through the morning and it drew the Sheriff out of city hall and pushed Peter back inside. Peter kept his pace even, his socks silent against the tiles, and forced himself to keep his eyes ahead. With every step the tightness in his chest lessened. When he finally arrived back at his office and pushed open the doors, he was feather-light. 

Finstock and Kira were shoulder-to-shoulder on the floor. Kira’s feet were bare against the rug. She twisted, half-leaning on Finstock so she could face Peter. 

“Are you alright, Peter?” 

“I am,” the door swung shut behind him and Peter grinned. “I am exactly where I need to be.” 

::::

Relationships of all kinds were all about the give and take, the cat-and-mouse dance of coy progression and retreat. 

Small gestures that could easily be seen as small and insignificant added up. On his late nights, the Sheriff would stop by if Peter’s office lights were on. At first it was just a gesture. A quick hello and goodbye. After a few months, he would bring coffee. Sometimes… sometimes he would bring food.

Peter cut his own budget to increase funds for the school and police force. His morning runs were patrols, to keep the borders safe from any intruders, human and inhuman. When Stiles was at one of Peter’s fundraising parties, picking at his cufflinks petulantly and admitted that he worried about his father’s eating habits, Peter started a community garden and farmer’s market. 

Small gestures kept accumulating until Noah broke apart from a deep kiss with an, “Oh Christ.” 

Peter couldn’t say who moved first, who broke first. All he knew was the sound of papers crunching beneath the Sheriff’s back. He pinned him to the Sheriff’s desk as feral _delight_ ran through him. Noah pressed back up, his teeth grazing Peter’s lower lip. Noah’s hands caught in Peter’s shirt and he heard it _rip_ , three buttons flying off onto the floor. He’d be livid about that later, Peter was sure, but at the moment his entire world was about the sensation of Noah’s pulse under Peter’s tongue.

It was late, it was _always_ late when Peter and the Sheriff met. Other officers and staff had gone home long ago. Opal swirls of moonlight slipped through the windows and the sputter of sprinklers buzzed outside. Not that Peter paid much attention to his current surroundings that didn’t directly involve the Sheriff. 

Noah’s hips jerked up to meet the grinding friction that Peter was happy to provide. Peter was drunk on the prickling heat the spread up his neck. When Noah’s moans caught in his throat it was as though Peter had been sucker-punched, dizzy and wanting more, more, _please, more_. It would be frightening, later, just how much Peter was _not_ thinking at all. 

“Mayor H-Hale,” and _oh_ if that title didn’t make a white-hot _flash_ of arousal make itself embarrassingly known. 

Peter tugged at Noah’s _annoying_ belt and in a moment of frustrated passion, he snapped the leather in half. He tossed it behind him, hoping the Sheriff wouldn’t notice. He didn’t hesitate as he pressed his thumb against the damp spot on the Sheriff’s briefs. Peter rolled the Sheriff’s lower lip between his teeth and _pulled_ , chuckling as a startled shout tickled Peter’s teeth. The air was thick with the smell of arousal and Peter wanted to drown in it. He ran his fingers along the damp fabric before he tugged them aside. 

For years Peter had been satisfied with a very lovely vibrator. It was silicone, German-made, and Peter told himself it was all he ever needed. He was charismatic, but dating someone in Beacon Hills would be a risk. People could see it as favoritism, they’d find any frayed thread and pick it apart until it bled. That… and who could possibly be worth the risk to bring potential danger closer to his Pack? 

Noah Stilinski’s cock was thick and twitched against Peter’s palm when he finally gripped it. The Sheriff’s arms shook and he fell back, his neck exposed and oh, _that_ made a pretty picture. Peter pressed his thumb against the tip and shuddered when Noah’s head thunked back against the desk. 

Peter felt clumsy and hot, his breath was coming fast. He didn’t feel in control even as he pumped the Sheriff’s cock, pressing closer so that the Sheriff had to spread his legs more to accommodate him. Even as Peter stood over him, wringing out whimpers and moans, he felt as though he were plummeting. Toward what, Peter was uncertain. 

“ _Peter_ ,” the Sheriff’s lashes fluttered against his cheeks. Such a submissive pose was unnatural on the Sheriff and felt _dirty_. Peter growled, words failed him. He _squeezed_ and the string of _JesusChristohmyGod_ that followed made Peter dizzy. “Peter, I’m going to come.” 

“Good.” Peter grinned. “That’s the goal of this endeavor.” 

“ _Endeavor_ ,” Noah laughed and strangely, it was the _merriment_ that made Peter’s hands shake the hardest. The Sheriff’s fingers fumbled and gripped Peter’s arm, stretching the material of his shirt. “Oh God.” 

Peter listened to Noah’s body rise to the inevitable crescendo, the echoes of his heartbeat, his whispering breath, the blood that roared through his veins. Peter milked it, keeping his movement steady as come streaked up his arm and hit both of their shirts. He watched, he listened, and somehow was still taken by surprise when Noah _yanked_ him. 

The Mayor stumbled and had to slam his hand on the desk to stop himself from falling on Noah completely. His ribs ached and he went still when he felt Noah’s breath on his neck’s delicate skin. 

Noah clumsily fumbled with Peter’s fly, barely managing to undo the zipper. His teeth bit into Peter’s neck, not hard enough to break the skin but hard enough to—

—to send Peter’s mind hurdling to every action that led up to this moment, every brief touch of the arm, a small exhausted smile, endless cups of stale coffee, and the underlying current of _desire_ that Peter convinced himself was shallow. It was the feeling of sinking into a warm bath, it was the forbidden sting of him, an _Alpha_ , presenting his neck to a human, and it was a barrage of fireworks that were champagne-colored and sounded like crystal bells—

“Fuck.” Peter buried his face in Noah’s shoulder, pleasure taking him out at the knees. He felt shock make the Sheriff’s body go slack, Peter coming _embarrassingly_ quickly. “ _Fuck_.” 

His heart thudded against his ribcage. He pushed himself up, not allowing himself to linger so that Noah could potentially swoop in for a kiss. Instead he moved away so that he could sit on the desk. The clock ticked loudly on the wall as the come cooled in Peter’s underwear. Every second returned a sliver of sensation back to Peter’s skin, every breath was another silent “what the fuck _were you thinking?_ ” 

It would have been easier if it had been someone Peter hadn’t known. Peter should have… driven to another state and picked someone up in a bar. He should have been smarter. He should have had more control. It was one thing to have a tryst with a stranger… it was another to share intimacy with someone he respected. 

Behind him the Sheriff’s breathing slowed and his heartbeat returned to a normal rhythm. His scent lessened in its mouth-watering bewildered arousal and soured with bitter anxiety. Peter kept his back to him, his shoulders tight. 

“As I see it,” Peter squeezed the back of his neck with a still-trembling hand, “we can do two things. We can walk away and never speak of tonight again,” Peter ignored the harsh uptick in Noah’s heartbeat, “or I can take you out to dinner next week.” 

Peter sighed heavily. He heard papers shift as the Sheriff sat up. 

“You make dinner sound like the end of the world.” Peter huffed and finally glanced over to meet Noah’s eyes. He looked younger, the worry-lines less apparent in his face. His cheeks were still splotchy and flushed. When he smiled with only a hint of teeth Peter loathed the sharp _affection_ that swelled in his chest. “Would dating me be so bad, Peter?”

“No. _Yes_.” Peter kicked the Sheriff’s foot when he laughed, unable to stop from smiling. Later he’d blame it on the post-orgasmic haze. “It won’t make our careers any easier.” 

The Sheriff rolled his eyes. 

“Everyone loves you.”

“True,” Peter preened, “but I had to work _hard_ for that love.” 

If Peter were honest to the point of incriminating himself, he hadn’t trusted the people to love him _enough_ at first. He won the election… because he rigged it. Peter Hale was not a gambler. If he played a game, he _won_. And he proved to be a worthy mayor so every landslide after that was organic. 

He wanted to make Beacon Hills a utopia. He wanted to scrub it clean of imperfections, corruption, until it was a machine that ran so smoothly it seemed otherworldly. He had made progress but there was always more work to be done. 

Being a werewolf wasn’t not Peter Hale’s biggest secret. 

Seconds ticked away. Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Have you been to Andres on Spring Street yet? It just opened up.” Peter cracked his eyes open to meet Noah’s. “I’ve heard it’s very good.” 

He was being a fool for the first time in his life. It felt as though he’d tripped on a slab of uneven sidewalk. _This is such a bad idea_ , Peter thought as Noah grinned. 

::::

Red, white, and blue confetti still clung to Peter’s hair as he loosened his tie. Cora’s tiny legs dangled around him, his one arm tucked beneath her as she slept. Derek’s eyes were red-rimmed and bleary. Peter gently shook his niece. 

“Cora,” Peter’s hoarse voice cracked, “Cora, you need to wake up, sweetheart. Get into your pajamas.” 

Cora’s eyes cracked open.

“Did you win, Uncle Peter?” 

Peter smiled as he set her down in their foyer. 

“I did.” 

“Mm.” Cora rubbed her eyes, lazily kicking off her shoes. “That’s good.” 

She ran to her bedroom and Derek lingered, swaying on his feet. Peter ruffled his hair. 

“Go wash up. I’ll be there to tuck you in.” 

Derek was sixteen but Peter could tell when he needed… Peter close. So Derek left and Peter tugged off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. He laid his suit over his chair and washed his face free of concealer and foundation. He had a few new emails and texts, but he’d get to them tomorrow. He pulled on a tank-top and sweatpants. 

Peter opened the door to Derek’s room and wasn’t surprised when he saw that Cora was with him, already asleep. Derek bit his lip and Peter wished that his nephew didn’t look so haunted late at night. No one Derek’s age should have shadows that stained the skin underneath their eyes. Peter swallowed and gently closed the door behind him. 

“Could you,” Derek’s voice wavered, and Peter waited for Derek to catch his breath. “Could you sleep with us? Just for tonight?” 

“Of course.” Peter didn’t hesitate as he pulled back the blankets, crawling over so that he laid in the middle. Cora snuggled close immediately, her breath soft against Peter’s shoulder. Derek’s brows were still furrowed as he turned off the light. “Hey.” Peter squeezed Derek’s index finger. “Whenever you need me, I’ll be here. No questions asked.” 

Derek nodded and when he spoke in the dark Peter could smell salt. 

 

“I-I know.” 

“Come here.” Peter pulled Derek close, the way he would when he was young. Derek was lax and Peter hated that Derek still hesitated about asking for physical contact. He kept his hand between Derek’s shoulders and let his nephew wrap his arms around Peter’s middle, his grip a welcome weight. “Beacon Hills is our home.” 

Peter thought his heart and empathy only extended to his family. He was shocked when, years after he’d won his first mayoral election, he felt a familiar anxiety seize him when he got a call from Noah. A passing, “you sound like shit,” ended in Peter cancelling his lunch plans in order to drive over and check up on Stiles because the Sheriff had numerous late shifts and his son… 

Peter had forgotten about fevers and sickness. 

He opened the front door easily with a key Noah had given to him months ago. Peter hadn’t had a chance to _use it_ , they were both busy men, but still. It was more of a symbol than a practical tool. Peter held his breath as the door swung inward, creaking. He took his shoes off in the foyer, gently toeing them off before he ventured inside. 

Peter let his steps fall heavier than usual so that Stiles stirred on the couch. He watched the boy tense, his heartbeat hammering loud for a few moments before rationality caught up with him. He was young, a few years younger than Cora. Seeing him bundled up on the couch made Peter’s stomach lurch, thinking of how Cora looked when their place in Beacon Hills was still uncertain. 

“Oh.” Stiles straightened, a stray pillow falling to the floor as he struggled to right himself. “Hi, Peter.” 

“Good afternoon, Stiles.” Peter placed his bags down in the kitchen before he moved to the living room. Stiles was set up with his laptop and had a few books spread out on the table. “How are you feeling?” 

Stiles shrugged but didn’t flinch when Peter pressed the back of his hand to Stiles’s clammy, feverish forehead. 

“Not better, not worse. I told dad not to worry, it’s fine.” Stiles coughed. “I’ve been sick before. It’ll go away.” 

“I’m sure it will.” Peter took his hand away. “But your father has a right to worry. As you worry about him.” He ran his fingers through Stiles’s hair briefly before he touched the blankets around Stiles’s body. “Where do you keep fresh blankets?” 

“Upstairs.” Stiles blinked, dazed. “Across from dad’s room in the closet on the far left. It’s a little… weird, you have to push the door _in_ before you open it.” 

“Got it. Stay here.” 

Peter got fresh sheets and blankets. As he stuffed the old ones into the washer he thought of how long Noah’s shifts were… and went back upstairs. He pulled the sheets off the Sheriff’s bed and replaced them with new ones. Peter told himself that it was because fresh sheets felt the best, and not that by running his fingers along the sheets that the Sheriff would be sleeping wrapped in Peter’s scent. 

Stiles’s eyes were more clear when Peter came back down the stairs. Stiles stood, his legs shaky as he followed Peter into the kitchen, his sheets draped around him like a robe. 

“What’s in the bags?” 

Peter smirked as Stiles tried to peek in the grocery bags. 

“Soup. Well, ingredients for soup.” 

Peter worked quickly, following the recipe he’d googled as Stiles watched. Peter was familiar with Stiles, but he could count on one hand how many times they’d been alone together. In fact, he wouldn’t even need all his fingers. He chopped parsley and kept his shoulders slack despite feeling the boy’s eyes on him.

“Aren’t you worried about getting sick?” 

“No.” Peter turned briefly and winked. “If I do get sick, it’s a risk I’m willing to take.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes with a small, tired smile. He flipped idly through a book, smelling the air once the soup got going. Peter rolled up his sleeves and kept stirring until it was ready to serve. Stiles’s eyebrows shot up at the taste, his smile unrestrained. 

“This is good. Thank you, Peter.” Peter waved away the gratitude. His phone chimed, an updated itinerary from Kira, and new emails. He had fifteen minutes left before he had to get back to the office, and that was when Stiles cleared his throat. “My dad used to change the sheets before mom would get home. If she had a late shift… he’d sleep on the couch so she could get them first.” Peter turned sharply. Stiles’s gaze was steady, much more aware despite his feverish flushed cheeks. “Anyone can give someone a key… but changing the sheets. That’s serious.” 

Stiles wrung his lips and his lower lip trembled. 

“I didn’t think… I didn’t think you’d last this long.” Stiles covered his eyes with his hands and he trembled like a leaf. “That’s so shitty, but… come _on_.” Stiles peeked through his fingers. “You’re the _mayor_. Like… I thought that it was a convenience thing.” Stiles shrugged and rolled his shoulder like it hurt him to make the movement. “Makes sense, you know? Take something that’s easy and always nearby. But then… then you changed the sheets.” 

Peter hesitated, not sure if physical contact would make Stiles feel better. He looked so small, wrapped in blankets. Peter got a washcloth and soaked it in cold water. Stiles took it graciously and pressed it against his puffy eyes. 

“It’s just… if this is too much, you should break it off now. Like a band-aid.” 

Stiles’s breath hitched. Peter took his bowl away and gently guided Stiles back to the couch. He waited, gently tucking the blankets around Stiles until he took the cloth away from his eyes. Peter knelt on the floor. 

“Stiles, I’m not a selfless man. I’m the mayor, yes. And I’m pretty great, but only because everything I do is for myself.” Peter squeezed Stiles’s hands. “I care about my family. And those who are close to me, and I want them to have a good and comfortable life. It serves me, this selfishness that passes as altruism.” Peter watched Stiles’s eyes flicker over his face and he wondered what the boy thought he saw hidden in his laugh lines. “I want it all… and that includes you and your father.” 

Thin arms flung around his neck and Peter felt the tightness in his chest dissolve. Peter didn’t mention the renewed tears when he pulled back to kiss Stiles’s forehead. 

“All right.” Stiles lightly pushed him back, wiping his eyes. “I’m all right. I don’t want to waste any more taxpayer money.” 

Peter snorted.

“My lunch is unpaid, Stiles. You’re safe.” 

Stiles’s answering laugh was bright. 

::::

It was a week before the winter holidays and Peter hadn’t slept for four days. He had an itinerary a mile long and a gift list that was miles _longer_. The air had been stained with peppermint and chocolate overnight and there was an anticipation and joy that thrummed through the entire town. Whenever Peter thought about it too much he counted his breaths until the gnawing pressure lessened. 

“Finstock said if you don’t sleep tonight that he’s going to sneak through your window and sedate you.” Kira’s eyes flickered over Peter’s suit before she went over the speech one last time. “Just FYI.” 

“Thanks for the heads up.” Peter brushed himself off. He had his annual holiday press conference and the rest of the day was checking up on various businesses and re-establishing borders. There was a new coven of witches who were hoping to move into Beacon Hills and Peter was going to meet with them that night to discuss various wards for the town. Hunters, thankfully, seemed to take some time off during the holidays. Peter adjusted his tie. “What do you want for the holidays, Kira?” 

Peter watched her hair fall from behind her ear and her lips pulled back into a pleasant smile. 

“I’ve got everything I need.” 

Peter snorted. 

“Well...we’ll see if I can think of something.” 

Cameras flashed and Peter knew he looked handsome, like he’d fallen out of an amber-lit cigarette ad from the sixties. His words were honeyed and were wishes of goodwill with a promise for another busy year of progression. The room was full with the usual faces, journalists he all knew on a first-name basis, even those more critical of him. Finstock and the Sheriff stood on the sidelines. 

The questions were soft-balls, everyone seemed to be eager to break for coffee and pastries, until a thin, weathered hand raised. Peter’s eyes swept over to Gloria Spairow. He kept his voice gentle even as his chest tightened. 

“Yes, Gloria?” 

Gloria was a brilliant, older woman with long, historical ties to Beacon Hills and their newspapers and journals. She chased stories with vigor and elegant obsession. Peter would have _loved_ to have her on his team. 

Unfortunately, Gloria Spairow took great interest in Peter and his speed at getting things done. Her suspicion was as admirable as it was dangerous. 

“Mayor Hale, do you find your relationship with the Sheriff to be a conflict of interest? It seems dangerous to mix casual feelings with work.” 

The rest of the group bristled and murmurs made Peter’s tongue dry. He didn’t dare look at the Sheriff. His instinct is to maim, to rush off the stage and show what happens when people try to come after his Pack. It was a momentary rage that he expelled with his next breath. He built his reputation on delivering what was promised. Murdering a reporter for inquiring about his personal life was not something Peter promised Beacon Hills. 

He cleared his throat and heard Kira’s breath tremble behind him. 

“After the fire,” Peter maintained eye contact with Gloria. “After I lost my sister and a great deal of my extended family, my priorities changed. Everything was about Derek and Cora and making sure they were safe. I still worry about whether or not I do enough. Sheriff Noah Stilinski has to remind me that it’s okay to want things for myself.” He let his eyes drift from Gloria to the Sheriff, to his rapid heartbeat and focused, familiar gaze. Peter smiled even as his own heart lodged in his throat. He could still hear distant music played in a candlelit room. “I love you, darling.” 

As far as love confessions went, Peter had planned it to go differently. He had a bottle of wine he’d specially ordered for the occasion, but… he was open to improvisation. The Sheriff’s ears bloomed red and Peter knew that Noah would want to _talk_ privately. 

Peter had tiny threads of grey hair gathering at his temples. He had deep laugh lines. He had treaties with creatures from all over the world working to keep Beacon Hills free of hunters. He had blood on his hands. He was also… in love. 

Bright bursts of camera flashes went off and captured Mayor Peter Hale’s endearing grin.

**Author's Note:**

> This was... an adventure. I've never written this pairing before and I'm a little nervous but this concept was too good to pass up. I hope to add more to the series, so if you like this please holler at me! I have a lot of interesting backgrounds for Peter and his team. 
> 
> As always, Beacon Hills is not always what it seems.


End file.
